


Laundry

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, POV John Watson, Some Fluff, is he ever going to tell John?, what the hell happened to Sherlock when he was away?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John does the laundry.  Sherlock has a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsys_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/gifts).



> So, this started as an idea from a sweet, funny head-canon by [Anigrrrl2](http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/) aka [allonsys_girl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl) that just kind of tumbled out of control.
> 
> And then shit got real because I'm a jerk.
> 
> Here's the sweet [post](http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/post/90968812501/you-know-john-did-all-the-washing-and-folded) that I absolutely destroyed with angst and pain and awful:  
> "You know John did all the washing and folded Sherlock’s pants. Just picture that for a second. John sitting on the sofa on a Saturday night watching Bond and surrounded by neat stacks of Sherlock’s clothes."
> 
> But it's sweet too and it works into my series.
> 
> I blame the fact that I'm sick as balls with a summer virus and miserable and hate everything, even when I love lovely things I want to make them miserable because misery loves company and see above: I'm a jerk. And I'm sick. At least they love each other though.

John grunts as he heaves the laundry basket up the stairs and through the door of 221B Baker Street. He had long since taken up doing Sherlock’s laundry before, well, before…and since he’s been home he’s back at it. It used to be much easier, a t-shirt and pajama pants here, boxers and boxer briefs, towels. Sherlock used to get all his expensive, tailored clothes dry-cleaned. Or rather, Mycroft would send someone around weekly to collect Sherlock’s clothes to be dry-cleaned, as Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember something as ridiculous as keeping ones garments cleaned.

Of course John didn’t wear or even buy clothes that could only be dry-cleaned. It was one of the first things he always checked for in a store, the tag that indicated the clothes could at least be put in a washer, even if they had to be hung to dry. John owned one cashmere sweater that was dry-clean only, a gift from Mummy Holmes, and as far as he was concerned that dry-clean-only warning meant, “I will never ever wash this ever.”

But, a few weeks ago, during some ridiculous argument about the state of their living quarters, John had discovered that a good portion of Sherlock’s clothes didn’t need dry-cleaning. In fact, most of them could be put in a cold washer, then hung to dry. Somehow Mycroft, the bastard, had chosen that moment to walk up the stairs to the flat for an unannounced visit. Upon hearing John yelling that Sherlock should have just checked the tags before dropping his clothes on the floor to see if they could go in the bathroom hamper, Mycroft promptly decided that Mycroft’s Laundry Services would be cut back to monthly.

So of course, now, John is stuck washing and hanging most of Sherlock’s clothes lest the flat become uninhabitable. Within the first week dirty slacks and shirts were leaking into the kitchen. John had tried to get Sherlock to do it, but the bloody arse had feigned dumb and overflowed Mrs. Hudson’s washer on his first try. It’s much less hassle for John to just do it himself. “Oh, codependence…” John grumbles as he drops the basket on the floor of the sitting room.

Of course, more laundry means more folding and more ironing. John’s jumpers and jeans don’t need that attention, but the trousers and shirts he wears to the surgery do. And heaven forbid Sherlock Holmes be seen in a suit with wrinkles.

John picks up the remote to flip on the telly before unfolding the ironing board and filling the iron. He actually doesn’t mind doing the ironing, it’s rather relaxing and he can have an old Bond movie on in the background and have the excuse that he wasn’t paying attention and was watching something else originally when Sherlock teases him for having watched it hundreds of times. Plus, when he’s done he gets to fold Sherlock’s pants. He was never an underwear fetishist, even with his girlfriends or ex-wife. Panties and bras were utilitarian, they served a purpose. But Sherlock’s pants…that man has changed everything John thought he knew about himself.

But first, the ironing. Then John can fold and fondle to his heart’s content and the git will never be the wiser. John hopes.

He is finishing up his last shirt and about to move to Sherlock’s pants when he abruptly flounces out of the kitchen and flops on the leather sofa. John’s lip quirk in a smile as Sherlock assumes his Thinking Pose.

“You know, you could help. Most of this is yours.”

“Thinking.” Is all Sherlock replies. Of course he’s thinking, but why can’t he think and work at the same time? John finds that menial labor is the best time to organize one’s thoughts.

“You are the laziest person alive.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively and resumes his pose. John hears the standard grunt-sigh as Sherlock retreats to his Mind Palace. He won’t be moving for a while. At least he doesn’t make John leave the room anymore. John likes that. It means comfort and ease, something he had been so terrified of having lost when he returned to Baker Street. But that returned almost immediately, accompanied with the new feelings of lust and less-than-casual-touches. John sighs to himself. This is moving much more slowly than he thought it would. He had been so hopeful after Sherlock was shot in the shoulder a few months ago, and it most certainly isn’t as if they’d moved backwards after his little kiss, chaste though it was. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned it, and John is afraid he doesn’t even remember drugged as he was, so he just continues pushing lightly forward. They’ll get there, John is confident. He’s just an impatient person.

John’s reverie is interrupted by a snore from the sofa. The sodding git is asleep, arm lolling over his side onto the floor.

“Thinking,” John shakes his head. “Lazy.” Of course, John thinks it’s adorable that Sherlock snores. And, he’s glad he’s sleeping. As far as John is aware, Sherlock never went to sleep the night before, choosing instead to catalogue slides of some disgusting thing John couldn’t be arsed to care about. He cares about proper sleep schedules, thank you very much.

Truthfully, John enjoys this domesticity. He’s never had it with another person, not even Mary. He shuts off the iron and grabs the basket full of pants—both of their pants, all mingled together and stuck from static cling—sitting in his chair to fold. And also, John gets to manhandle Sherlock’s pants. It’s not creepy and juvenile. Of course not. There is something delightful about doing some menial chores, losing track of the time and only looking up when gunfire erupts on the telly from the movie while Sherlock naps on the sofa.

Also, pants.

John has a chicken thawing in the sink—which he made Sherlock scrub out the night before—and he’ll make the thing with peas for dinner. Unless maybe they get a call from Lestrade, and spend the rest of the night running around London. Even with the new added layer of unspoken desire and emotion, John is content—

“No,” a moan and a gasp from the couch. John’s head snaps up and turns to Sherlock. He’s still asleep, but he looks disturbed. “No, you can’t…please…” Sherlock’s face contorts in pain, or fear, John can’t tell. But he can tell it’s a bit Not Good.

“Sherlock…” John calls quietly, frozen to the spot. John’s never known Sherlock to have nightmares, or talk in his sleep. Of course, he’s never spent much time with Sherlock asleep, save for in hospital when Sherlock was less asleep and more in a drunken stupor. Should he wake him? Let him work through it and remain asleep?

One of Sherlock’s arms snaps up and grips the back of the couch, so hard John sees his knuckles turn white. “No, don’t…” he groans again, thrashing a little. “Please…plea—anything, I’ll do anything.” He throws his head back and John sees Sherlock struggle to lift his one arm from the floor. John knows the horror of dreams like this, to be in a dream so vivid you’re not sure if you’re awake or asleep, just knowing you have to get out and finding you can’t do it, you can’t move, at least not the way you want to. When the REM cycle and NREM cycle are at odds, glycine release both not enough and too much.

“John…no…not…” This is a sharp cry, a gasp of fear and pain and John gets to the couch in two steps.

“Sherlock,” John says gently, placing a hand on Sherlock’s bare ankle. His skin is cold and clammy. John knows he needs to either wake him up or ease him through it to a more peaceful sleep, and he doesn’t want to startle him either way.

“Please…not…”

“Sherlock!” John says a bit more loudly, shaking his foot a bit. To his surprise, Sherlock kicks and reels in his sleep, thrashing more wildly. It catches John square in the chin, and his instinct is to pin Sherlock’s leg down. This of course does nothing to calm him, and he thrashes harder, still asleep.

“NO! You can’t!” Sherlock is practically sobbing now, stuck in whatever hell his brain has decided to provide him. John leans over his best friend and grabs both his wrists, struggling to stop Sherlock’s thrashing before he injures John or himself. “JOHN! NO! John…”

“SHERLOCK!” John pins Sherlock’s arms above his head to the arm of the sofa with one hand and takes his chin in the other. His face is slick with sweat. He pushes back, twisting and almost pushing John off the couch. John presses harder against Sherlock’s wrists, and shakes his chin a bit in his other hand.

“Noooo…John…” A whimper, and his body goes slack. “No…” It’s a defeated, pitiful sound. John’s heart clenches. What is Sherlock seeing? What battle did he just lose?

“Sherlock…” He strokes Sherlock’s cheek, pushes sweat-damp curls out of his face. John still has Sherlock’s arms pinned above his head. “Sherlock, wake up darling—” oh, that just slipped out, didn’t it?—“I’m right here. Wake up.”

Sherlock’s eyes finally open and John is frankly shocked at the released tears that streak down his face. He looks confused for a second, eyes searching John’s face as if he’s not sure whether what he’s seeing is real or not. John remembers seeing this look of panic on Sherlock’s face only once before, at the pool, when he had stepped out of the changing rooms covered in Moriarty’s Semtex. Lost.

Sherlock inhales hard. “John?”

“Yeah,” John gently releases Sherlock’s wrists. “Hey, nightmare…” he moves his hand down and lightly rests it on Sherlock’s chest. He can feel Sherlock’s heart hammering against his too prominent ribs. “I’m right here…”

“John…”

“I know, I’m right here,” John reaches to tug down Sherlock’s t-shirt, which had worked its way up his torso during the struggle. He keeps his hand on Sherlock’s stomach, feels it heave with his breathing. “You feel asleep, and—”

“John,” Sherlock’s face crumples and he presses the heel of his palms against his eyes. His shoulders begin to shake and John sees a flush of red appear on Sherlock’s neck, probably a combination of mortification and lingering fear as he tries to control his tears.

“Hey, hey!” John grabs Sherlock by the wrists again and heaves him up, pulling him against his chest. Sherlock’s face presses into John’s neck instinctively, like a child seeking out the safety of a parent. John feels tears run down beneath his jumper collar. He has never seen Sherlock like this, and it terrifies him. Never. One hand begins to rub small circles on Sherlock’s back, the other comes up to cradle the back of his head. He’s careful not to press too hard on the still-tender exit wound. Sherlock’s back feels oddly bumpy but that thought vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. “Hey, it was a nightmare. It’s fine, you’re in Baker Street and I’m here. Shhhhh….”

Sherlock shudders and his long fingers grip the collar of John’s jumper. He’s silent for a few moments, his breathing slowly evening out. John rocks him slowly, trying to calm his own breathing. He has never, ever witnessed Sherlock like this and it’s deeply unsettling. Deeply. John presses his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head and squeezes his eyes shut. Was this normal? Did Sherlock dream like this often? And if so, how had he never heard it before?

Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, John,” he chokes, and abruptly tries to pull away. John doesn’t let him go though, not yet. He needs to hold him and much as he knows Sherlock needs to be held. He is deeply, deeply troubled. That wasn’t a run of the mill nightmare.

“Why are you sorry?” John chuckles mirthlessly. “You had a nightmare.” He feels Sherlock shudder again. John gives his bony shoulders a squeeze and pulls back to look at his face. “Hey. Look at me. Everything’s okay.”

Sherlock looks up through his wet eyelashes and sniffs, nodding heavily. Before John’s very eyes, a thirty-five year old man has been reduced to a ten-year-old. He moves a hand to Sherlock’s neck and squeezes gently. Sherlock’s mind has always fascinated John, awed him like nothing else. But sometimes it also terrifies him. Like now. John is terrified at the havoc Sherlock’s brain wreaks on itself.

“What happened? Do you want to tell me about it?” John asks gently, moving his left hand to Sherlock’s bicep.

Sherlock shakes his head minutely, sniffs again. He is staring at an invisible spot on the floor behind John. His right hand is still gripping John’s collar, arm hanging limply.

“Alright. Why don’t we just sit here for a bit, then I’ll make us some tea.”

Sherlock nods again and John settles back into the corner of the sofa, guiding Sherlock back with him by the neck. For a man who his nothing but six feet of gangly limbs, Sherlock sure can fold himself into quite a small space. He does just that, pulling his knees up to his chest and releasing John’s collar to tuck both hands under his chin. John wraps his arm back around Sherlock’s shoulders and holds him to his side, resting his chin in his still damp curls.

Well, this afternoon as gone to shit. Images and theories run through John’s head. He’s staring at the telly but not seeing anything. Every few moments Sherlock will sniff but John can feel his frame slowly relaxing. What did Sherlock see? Where was he? Was it Moriarty? Magnussen? Mary? Someone else, someone from when Sherlock was away? What _did_ happen when Sherlock was away? John realizes Sherlock never told him, and John never asked. Was the dream about that? Sherlock was obviously struggling, and John had obviously been in a danger in his dream. But life with Sherlock was always danger, they were always two steps ahead of Death, barely. How was this different? John honestly couldn’t imagine a situation in which Sherlock wouldn’t be able to save him, although he supposed they did exist. He had always trusted Sherlock to save him, but even if he couldn’t, didn’t they have an unspoken agreement that that’s what it was? John followed him willingly, had no qualms about the hazards of the job. Even when they were discussing the very mortal danger that was A.G.R.A. Sherlock had never reacted in such a way. What had been different about his night—

“John, why on earth are you watching this again? And didn’t you say you’d make tea?”

Well, at least he’s back. John rolls his eyes and squeezes Sherlock’s shoulders one more. “Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Tea.”

John will finish the folding later.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, how old is Sherlock? Did we ever figure that shiz out? I remember reading somewhere that he was 29 during ASiP, but then I couldn't find it in the source they cited. So, I guessed. He looks 35, right?
> 
> And glycine is the amino acid that is released and causes sleep-paralysis during the REM cycle. Sleep paralysis is a good thing. Sometimes, though, that gets all fucked up--especially during night terrors--and your sleep cycles can get all messed up and then I stopped listening to what my doctor was saying. But glycine does cause sleep paralysis, and it's when this doesn't work that one can thrash. Look up the rest if you want. :)


End file.
